THE SECRET RITUAL:
Irrespective of the wonderful *** you might have with others, or any ideals you may have about who, when, and where to engage sexually, sometimes the *** that you have with yourself gives you something impossible to achieve with another.

To be specific: what I’m speaking of are the internal mental constructs of performative ****** acts that are unrestricted in the imaginative world, and that one would never be able to consider in real time. Those masturbatory shadows of the deep and deeply ****** that few are able to acknowledge about themselves, and certainly remain unwilling to talk about with someone they maybe intimate with, for fear of its destructive impact on the relationship.

A shape of language
for the secrets of the body
for the secrets of the mind
in the flow of matter
physical and etheric
cyber chronicles of ambulated hunger
the cult of the body.

YOUR SEXULITY IS SACRED TO YOU, NOT SACRED FROM YOU:

Obviously moral sensibilities and the limits of temporal life dictate what we may do. We may be imaginative, bizarre, freaky and incredibly *****, but we are not crazy, at least not all of us, yet that doesn’t mean those shadowy ****** denizens of the deep don’t bathe in the great fathoms of our respective subconscious abyss.

My darkest desires
bloodletting streams
are a kind of ******
fetishy cognitive inventory
malformed denizens
of the subconscious.

THE PARAPHILIAS:
“Paraphilia is the experience of intense ****** arousal to atypical objects, situations, fantasies, behaviors, or individuals.”
Current data supports that about one out of every 6 people, irrespective of gender or ****** preference, experience some kind of paraphilia.
Here is a list of paraphilias that is a focus of ****** interest:

Andromimetophilia: Trans men.
Anililagnia: Attraction by young men to older women.
Anthropophagolagnia: ****** and then cannibalizing another person.

Anthropophagy: Ingesting human flesh.
Apotemnophilia: Being an amputee.
Asphyxiophilia: Being asphyxiated or strangled.
Attraction to disability: People with one or more physical disabilities.
Autagonistophilia: Being on stage or on camera.
Autassassinophilia: Being in life-threatening situations.
******* asphyxiation: Self-induced asphyxiation, sometimes to the point of near unconsciousness.
Autogynephilia: ****** arousal of a biological male in response to the image of himself as female.
Auto-haemofetishism: Bleeding oneself (does not involve ingestion of blood). Type of autovampirism. [contradictory]
Autonepiophilia: The image of one’s self in the form of an infant.
Autopedophilia: The image of one’s self in the form of a child.
Autoplushophilia: The image of one’s self in the form of a plush or anthropomorphized animal.
Autovampirism/Vampirism: The image of one’s self in the form of a vampire. Involves ingesting or seeing one’s own blood.
Autozoophilia: The image of one’s self in the form of an animal or anthropomorphized animal.
Biastophilia/Raptophilia: ****** a person, possibly consensual **** fantasy.
Capnolagnia: Smoking.
Chremastistophilia: Being robbed or held up.
Chronophilia: Partners of a widely differing chronological age.
*******: Feces; also known as ****, scatophilia or fecophilia.
Coulrophilia: Clowns, jesters, and mimes.
Crurophilia: Legs.
Dacryphilia: Tears or crying.
Diaper fetishism: Diapers; considerable overlap with paraphilic infantilism.
*******: Trees.
Emetophilia: *****.
Eproctophilia: Flatulence.
****** asphyxiation: Asphyxia of oneself or others.
Erotophonophilia: ******, often of strangers (also known as dacnolagnomania).
Exhibitionism: Exposing one’s genitals to unsuspecting and nonconsenting others.
Feederism: Eating, feeding, and weight gain.
Formicophilia: Being crawled on by insects.
Forniphilia: Turning a human being into a piece of furniture.
Frotteurism: Rubbing against a non-consenting person.
Gerontophilia: Elderly people.
Gynandromorphophilia, Gynemimetophilia: Transgender women.
Hematolagnia: Drinking or looking at blood.
Heterophilia: Idealization of heterosexuality and/or people who are “straight-acting”, especially by non-heterosexual people.
Hoplophilia: Firearms, guns.
Hybristophilia: Criminals, particularly those who committed cruel or outrageous crimes.
Infantophilia: ******* with a focus on children less than five years old; a recently suggested term that is not in general use.
Kleptophilia: Stealing; also known as kleptolagnia.
Klismaphilia: Enemas, arousal and enjoyment in receiving, administering, or both.
Lactophilia: Breast milk.
Liquidophilia: Immersing genitals in liquids.
Macrophilia: Giant beings; the imagined growth of beings.
Maschalagnia: Armpits.
Mazophilia: Female *******.
Masochism: Suffering or humiliation; being beaten, bound or otherwise abused.
Maiesiophilia: Pregnant women.
Mechanophilia: Cars or other machines; also “mechaphilia.”
Melolagnia: Music.
Menophilia: *******.
Metrophilia: Poetry.
Microphilia: Very small people or small body parts.
Morphophilia: Particular body shapes or sizes.
Mucophilia: Mucus.
Mysophilia: Dirtiness, soiled or decaying things.
Narratophilia: Obscene words.
Nasophilia: Noses.
Navel fetishism: Navel.
Necrophilia: Corpses.
Objectophilia: Specific inanimate objects.
Oculophilia: Eyes and activities directly relating to and/or involving the eyes. Voyeurism does not meet classification for this term.
Odaxelagnia: Biting or being bitten.
Olfactophilia: Smells and odors emanating from the body, especially the ****** areas (as from breath, *****, feces, flatulence, etc.).
*******: Arousal from having a full bladder and/or wetting oneself, or from seeing someone else experiencing a full bladder and/or wetting themself.
Paraphilic infantilism: Dressing or being treated like a baby, also known as autonepiophilia or “adult baby syndrome”; considerable overlap with diaper fetishism.
Partialism: Specific, non-genital body parts.
*******: Prepubescent children, also spelled paedophilia.
Peodeiktophilia: Exposing one’s *****.
Pedovestism: Dressing like a child.
Podophilia: Feet.
Pictophilia: ******* or ****** art, particularly pictures.
Piquerism: Piercing the flesh of another person, most commonly by stabbing or cutting the body with sharp objects.
Plushophilia: Stuffed toy animals (“plushies”).
Pygophilia: Buttocks.
Salirophilia: Soiling or dirtying others.
****** fetishism: Non-living objects.
****** sadism: Inflicting pain on others.
Shoe fetishism: Shoes, such as high heels.
Somnophilia: Sleeping or unconscious people.
Sophophilia: Learning.
Sthenolagnia: Muscles and displays of strength.
Stigmatophilia: Body piercings and tattoos.
Symphorophilia: Witnessing or staging disasters such as car accidents.

Telephone scatologia: Obscene phone calls, particularly to strangers; also known as telephonicophilia and scatophiliac.
Teratophilia: Deformed or monstrous people. The term is also sometimes used in a more literal sense (from ancient Greek τέρας, teras, meaning monster) for attraction to monstrous mythical and fictional creatures such as werewolves.
Toucherism: Touching an unsuspecting, non-consenting person with the hand.
Toxophilia: Archery.
Transvestic fetishism: Wearing clothes associated with the opposite ***; also known as transvestism.
Transvestophilia: A transvestic ****** partner.
Trichophilia: Hair.
Troilism: Observing one’s partner engaged in ****** activities with another person.
Urolagnia: Urination, particularly in public, on others, and/or being urinated on. Also referred to as “water sports”.
*******: The idea of one person or creature eating or being eaten by another; usually swallowed whole, in one piece; also known as vore.
Voyeurism: Watching others while naked or having ***, generally without their knowledge; also known as scopophilia or scoptophilia.
Wet and messy fetishism: Messy situations, including, but not limited to, being pied, slimed or covered in mud.
*******: Animals.
Zoosadism: Inflicting pain on animals, or seeing animals in pain.
~~~~~
A REAL-LIFE PROFILE OF A WOMAN ACUTELY AWARE OF HER DARK FETISHY SIDE
Primary Fantasy: Dehumanization, objectification. I love the idea of being kidnapped and converted into meat.
(Fantasy obviously!!)
I also enjoy preservation, taxidermy, dollification, weird stuff like that!
Other Fetish Interests:
Hucow
Medical
Lab scenes
Necro
Morgue
Hanging
Lethal injection

MAKE THE UNCONSCIOUS CONSCIOUS:
There is much written in-depth psychology about ****** pathologies caused by repressed or shadowy disowned parts of ourselves and how those neglected forces may determine unwanted fate. Shame and self-deception is not our friend. Know yourself.

Pleasure is so close to ruinous waste
nakedness wrecks decency
degradation feeds the bonfire of hunger
and the wound of desire bleeds away within

leave nothing
but the bleeding edge
ruin me she said.
~
Beyond hearts mastery
hullabaloo crime scenes
like night jungles
of tooth and claw
in corridors of neuron ghosts
while **** licking succubae
*** livid pornographic hieroglyphs
fed by the dreaded
excesses of testosterone
towards some ruined
blood spotted
hanky-panky *******
just to remind me of you
and how it hurt just so
and how you loved me for it
whoever you are.
....
https://medium.com/@4zebra2u/the-secret-***-life-we-keep-from-our-selves-7f227dbc6c4a

The cigarette I had afterwards
Felt better than every time we had *** combined

Basically,
I'd rather get cancer

If having *** was getting ******
I was drowning in it
But somehow you're okay with me ramming my **** into your skull
And this letter will be the mindfuck

Let me extrapolate
So extra!
pull those sheets off the bed late at night because you made a ******* mess again
And I don't enjoy laying in wet sheets

Because having to hold your head out of the toilet when you threw up from partying like a Highschool sophomore got old pretty ****** quick

And having to be the answer to every problem you had
trying to tell you how to fix it on your own
Was like handing you a loaded pistol, helping you aim at the target,
And then watching you shoot yourself in the foot

If sitcoms were ****** tunes
And you were still too simple to get it
That'd be my favorite ******* show

Until it bursts through the tv screen and moves all its baggage into the room where my writing desk used to be

I can't wait to beat the *** of the love child you thought we had
Shake and wake it up
Tell him the tooth fairy doesn't exist
And no matter how much **** she talks
That he will walk away with less money in the end
And all it will take is a fleshy hole to remind him of her

Your sugar daddy has a cavity
And before I replace it with a tooth wrapped up in a gold ring
I'm pulling you out
I guess you'll know what it feels like now?

Because for every time you made an excuse
I ran around in circles to
made sure you were happy
And when I got to the end of the marathon
You made me take you by the hand and walk to buy you ice cream

“Daddy” is not for grown ups
So don't act like it was serious
All you did was child's play
You wanted me to be a single father who ****** his daughter's brains out every night
And bought her toys whenever she wanted

If that was love
You were a game
And I got played

And.
it's ******* disgusting

why didn't existentialism every take off in England?
fair enough, the Poles aren't exactly saints, but they'e not
exactly  vermin... one Muslim should have learned
his history better: two naked swords, against the Northern
Crusaders - but, n'ah ah, he didn't, i told you,
never trust an Egyptian with monotheism,
he'll bury the artefacts in a desert for
2000 years... and then we'll
have the cult of Baφoμet and
the prickly skinned crusaders saying:
better the extra-**** and **** than
the headscarf... and they burnt at the stake...
got crackly pork skins with them
as if it was a hoax to remember: that's what really
happened. μι or qui or any softened
carrot: yellow gets van Gogh, blue gets
Picasso... i guess orange gets O'Hara...
it is the age of Baφoμet and the Knights
Templar... you sorta think that
agitation with amateur terror will slow
down the process of coherent and systematic
far-right activities? i swear you shipped those
Syrians into Germany for a revision
of the holocaust... i'm ******* sweating with
anticipation while i swipe left for a
kippah scalping and get a Syria monk
out of it... perhaps a date... but you know...
i'm not that much of a talker...
my mother spent 3 months in 40 degree heat
that kills... the arabs are heating the cauldron up...
soon, you'll be wishing you'd have lived in
Siberia... and i'm not kidding,
global warming is debatable in Iceland, Britain,
and New Zealand... not on any continent
we know of... 40°C... **** the **** old me!
i'm not even wishing for old age...
when this thing we cal an orb and relate
it to only one Grecian element: earth
isn't air... and we call the vest godly Venus
and Mars and Juniper -
well... why bother even thinking
about keeping up-to-date
when nothing we write will be written into
stone? i like the delusion it will be,
blame Chinese employment of youthful
unemployment in countries where beauty
is fixated on tourist vomiting down your wedding aisles,
the existence of european communism
curated the beneficiary of competition
capitalism gagged for like a sad gimp clad
in torched and fetish leather...
but that went, went to the chinese...
or a russian Babushka said: democracy, whaaaa?
ca Ching the Chinaman...
                    n'oh h'oi! thirty thousand
eyelash strokes to a pictured idea per second,
all i have is Mongolian far way, in Kazakhstan:
chum Chou chew - juggling out the dribbles -
                     hey, you're on the verge of
equipping the cinnamon men their potency
to breathe a billion ***** in a square mile...
   of hillbilly... i'll bet you a 100 to 1 and say:
               pucker blow-lobe chips are on the house:
hence the cheesy smile: anthropoid digital tunnelling
        all the way to Palestine, and the new U.N.
                  and that fake thing you have:
no matter how many billion dollars,
it won't equal a single spoon, or hammer.
it's that sort of thing that's meta-metaphysical -
or some other benzene variant prefix -
get smart, live love, hurrah Marquis de Sade!
patron of old age; while your granny said:
lessen the lesion by probing it darling.
       Tokyo tribes? the weirdest film i've ever seen,
the **** aren't even Asia... stop telling me the
sun is too bright... Buddha walked with excess squint...
and he managed it without a tap-tap-boom stick
to mark out 2 square metres...
   happy are those living in a greenhouse,
  surface mirrors, and sea,
but on the continent, they joked that palm trees
would be grown in the Baltic circumference...
hello dodo... but then the amateurs appeared...
   beheading, blowing themselves up,
a library of one... what they have birth to isn't
as spectacular as giving your voice to Cabaret Voltaire...
   they are creating a new breed of khaki stiff-necks -
ostriches and the gargantuan plan of over-easy -
i know the ***** ones, the ones siding with the left,
they think they're political, only in the sense that
their politics is a proton-neutrality,
the idle life... the life worthy of no political involvement...
the easy life...            the life of respected repudiation,
centrist silent populist party name and manifesto
combined: status quo.
     the only generation that might talk of old
age as a zenith, an ultimate goal enshrined in
the furtherance of mankind's potential is the generation
of my grandparents... only my grandparent's generation
can boast about achieving old age...
   which means no artistic profit -
      only my grandparents won the lottery that's lasted
for donkeys' years... my parents haven't,
i haven't... my parent's, and yours, haven won
the mortgage lottery... so communism was a failure
because it was deemed to be a failure
   in the span of not even a trans-generational decade?!
   trans-generational decade?
   me... father, grandfather, great-grandfather,
  great-great-grandfather... etc.
               it was a failure because i inherited a bicycle
that didn't have two wheels... how am i supposed
to join the ******* circus in capitalism on a monocycle?
this ain't ideological warfare... this is 1 billion Chinese
we're talking about... and they're not going anywhere.
but my grandparents are the only success story of
communism reaching its potential -
                  sadly, you ought to know,
i'd rather invest in euthanasia than in retirement plans,
given the fact that most of you, don't even
have a potential to begin with a mortgage.
the reason why existentialism never took off in England,
is because Darwinism got mingled with history,
a timescale crushing next week's Monday -
and gone to hell the whole joy of routine -
routine the parachute, routine the sloth of time -
existentialism in England never took off
because current affairs in life were too problematic
to be thought of as boring: the canape of / for philosophers...
come on, Heidegger: being and beyng? obeying?!
Darwinism sorta of gave history a quantum dynamic:
a scratch of 19th century, a nibble from Hastings...
bish-bash-bosh... 19th of September 2016...
existentialism never took off because of the dichotomy
between the synonyms: life and existence -
as if the two differed so much -
well, the Pope knew how to deal the theological
*****: death and the after-life - same ****,
different cover. where these words ever so despairingly
coupled? life: no mention of: out of every instance,
and existence: out of every instance - rekindled
fetishism of avoiding mortality's river of set-out
change? it looks like it's just that...
                               currency of political correctness
these days?   the grand implosion:
    Ritter Templer und Zeit βaφoμeτ.

The last of the angels’
Castaway nametags
Hung from the plush red edges
Of the art deco interior.
A breeze from the open door
Cast the doctor’s pamphlets to the floor
Advertising his services
For the special remediation program
Since he could not sleep
What with all the voices
From below chanting his name—
How he envied the people he killed:
For they were spoken so little of.
That is, except for on his intake sheet:
After passing over the names,
Seven in all,
Whose lives were, shameless,
Shed over ***,
The latch clicked
And out came the doctor’s hand
Beckoning through the door
A “come hither” gesture.
On the couch he sat,
Neck conforming perfectly to the couch
As he swam a cascade of Rorschachs
Apart the mirror-faced, owl-like man.
Speaking with a heavy Eastern-European accent
He knew exactly why Elliot had come:
Perhaps the intentions were dubious,
Perhaps he was looking
For quick solutions;
Regardless, Mirror-Face was there to help:
Too easily, these days, was it
To determine dysfunction in the masculine—
And this case was rare,
Awash in chatter from below.
So, there must be something deeper
Rooted in fear of perpetual
Romance fetishism
And absence of its referent.
Yes! The penetrative is missing—
The limerant object
Is without form, shapely, and feminine
And would forever escape him,
In part by suicide,
In part by isolation.
The reason you are here
Is the absent-present offspring
Of such missing ***,
A veritable porcupine-dilemma
In the flesh, a show of insufficient ****** capital—
See now in this face of mine.
Yes, now that I’ve diagnosed
What ails
Let us explore what solutions
Could have been:
The living world does offer suitable surrogates
For those lacking—
Recognizing this is the first step
To being forgotten,
To allow you to sleep.
Yes, you recognized then
The gun as the extension of the phallus
And it levels the playing field
Raised up, aroused by power
One feels when operating heavy machinery—
Yes, all flesh which is the metaphorical egg,
The bullet is the *****,
Which penetrates the flesh of the paramour
Impregnating her with life inverted
And creates, in death,
The child of ****** frustration.
While this child is one of children lost,
It is child nonetheless.
Yes, and this gun, the metal *****,
***** not one
But many—in fact, incestuously,
It ***** entire families,
Entire communities,
And leaves their lives gravid
With your legacy.
Yes, it is the only way to create
The ultimate matron, the universal feminine,
The supreme m-Other
For the Supreme Gentleman.
And you, as you see me,
Are the absent-present of this child of death
This union of bullet-***** and the whole-body womb,
With which you, sadly, impregnated yourself.
But, here’s the secret,
Because of this, you can only do damage control:
Your child will prevail.
Yes, the name may be gone, but the child prevails.
Name may be gone, but child prevails.
Name gone, child here.
So, have the voices stopped?
Has the child matured in you?
You are on your way to being forgotten,
But the child lives on:
Yes, the name may be gone, but the child prevails.
Name may be gone, but child prevails.
Name gone, child here.

so this nun mary from the school
of the sisters of notre dame
(dame or Dane?) had her brain removed
and probed: full of plaques and entanglements,
advanced Alzheimer's the coroner said,
aged 101 the brain,
yet up to her death no symptoms of the disease...
she was one of 678 subjects of the nun study,
American experiment genesis 1986 a.d.,
(journalism is really a true ally of poetry),
the 678 were told to write a character assassination
in range between poetry and diary (in their 20s),
"low idea" density they did produce,
but like Sister Anastasia: an amazing poppy-seed cake.
indeed dementia, the western medical anxiety,
10% of people over 60 and 50% of those over 85,
the grey plague i call it (grey matter, no
vermin scuttling about);
men are particularly less at the risk,
long gone the vogue of smoking tobacco -
could have asked the Apache indians about
peace-pipes long into their 90s... but no.
Aloysius Alzheimer / Oppenheimer
discovered the anti-ego unit and the atom bomb
with the neuron, in the latter case the 'd'uh' gene...
cave in the vowels on discretion
saying 'y Dinosaur kno'w, but i saw
a big mushroom boom' caving in meaning they
have to sound more hollow than you thought before
(the vowels, the vowels)...
like the article states, is it really a dis-ease?
i.e. a negation of ease? only if you found learning
at school to be torture and equipped with
a mentality for menial tasks like sunset on a monday
or summer 1904 so too summer of 2014...
no dementia in the giant Galapagos turtles,
they outlive us and still have a brain-rate
on a scale of: take one step here, plop a **** there...
lettuce, lettuce, lettuce... munching this greenery
will take forever! indeed the backlog of libraries of
knowledge and the result of those pioneer futilities
never tapped, still fucky fucky, toow dollar sucky sucky
on the cranium donning a crown.
the rest of the article concerning 4 inches closer
between the finger that dipped into peanut butter
(a closed mouth, eyes, and one nostril)
and identification of nature's diarrhoea (mm those
crunchy bits of fungi and corn undigested) -
but i'd tell you the experiment is faulty,
the peanut butter served up probably wasn't warmed up,
sense of smell and gaseous imprints, like
chlorine the disinfectant in public swimming pools...
not watching television a big give-away,
leisure time spent watching Plato's cave
at 27% of the sigma elsewhere and 18% by those
not afflicted...
then there's the whole dementia diabetes debate,
vegetables versus fruits... vegetables win...
Alzheimer's (also known as type 3 diabetes)...
imagine a creature coerced into disbelieving the
existence of water, and that alcohol is water
and a hamburger, that's me...
remember that nuns are cloistered yet sociable...

general hardbacks
1. the unmumsy mum (50,195 examples sold)
2. how it works: the mum (119,830 examples sold)
3. how it works: the husband (312,910 examples sold)

general paperbacks
1. the road to little dribbling (68,270 examples sold)
2. SPQR (26,765 examples sold)
3. the shepherd's life (61,000 examples sold)

want the fiction statistics of the publishing industry?
here goes:

fiction hardbacks
1. the last mile (4,190 examples sold)
2. private paris (3,225       "             "  )
3. predator (22,430            "             "  )

fiction paperback
1. career of evil (16,865    "              " )
2. the girl in the spider's web (55,625 examples sold)
3. make me (127,395 examples sold)

so there's that and there's the 148 diaries found in a skip
(a life discarded): apparently only 148 diaries remained
from a total of 1,000, the universal truth after seeing
Iolanthe, running incompletely from 1952 (Cambridge),
a "true thing" at 30 words per minute ranging between
1 and 3 hours of composition daily (handwritten,
imagine writing with a keyboard ***,
hand-crafted in Israel, yes the *** is an Israeli invention),

so there's that, all the intellectuals bits and bobs,
but there's also:
#instawoman: 'mostly non-fiction - so i keep
them in the loo. a paragraph is better than nothing,
even if it takes me five years to finish a book.
agony aunt "mrs. mills'" replies to modern truffles
(sorry, trivialities): my b/f wants to have ***
on trains on the Glaswegian side of scotland
bit tipsy bit turvy (turdy?) and popping to do likewise
on the Cornish coastline, her reply?
****** pervert... fetishism (Freud believed)
derived from a man's unconscious terror of once
having stuck his head out of his mother's ******...
(hey! my bladder man! my ****! that ****
didn't develop till i was outside that annoying
oven / aquarium!) - so she replies and says:
whisper "the seven o'clock London Liverpool St.
to Norwich", and as my own input:
for a premature *******.

that's Sunday sorted then.

Bodies unite and collide together
Pleasurable bliss intertwined by flesh
Sweat soaked sheets and rhythmic movements
Gentle tenderness and ***** fetishism alike
Soft candlelight dancing on the wallpaper
Hands exploring the warmth of bodies
Rose petals spread all across the floor
Beauty in its purest form in this act
This act meant to be hallowed
Has become so hollow

westerners: we're basically the people with a big bang theory in our heads (what a ****** name for what used to be an awe-inspiring venture into the natural environment and colours, now just a black dot, no wonder the imagination dried-up at the end of the 20th century and it all became, "a little bit technical" / technology perfected the making of money / no -logy attache with art, the feel got the most of it), and having to still perform menial tasks, most of which became anti-physical, exports to China - an intellectual flatline of bureaucratic esteems, preferably lost among scientific theories that demean, devour and conspire to reach pinnacles of overstretched pronoun usage... too many nouns, too many nouns, there are to many names in this world that gather inert verbs around them - say the word aeroplane and i bet you won't end up being a pilot, able to fly the **** thing from London to Helsinki.*

i just realised i can't do it - applying
poetry to historical prose is exhausting -
the project has been terminated -
it's like two-hydrogen atoms coupled
to an oxygen atom defining the Atlantic,
the Pacific and a few lakes in between -
how can a single human being
encapsulate all that history? i don't
mind people spying on me, i know
spying is a form of fetishism, but trying
to encapsulate all that history in one
unit is counter-productive, non-representative,
i stopped on page 55, i didn't even get to
Greek history - what i love about all
that philosophical bollocking is that it's
airy, a modern arts gallery - you can fudge
in an elephant in there and people would say
that it's the five-blind men - or the sixth
deaf man, given the odd trumpet sound -
history literally does exhaust poetry the
easiest, philosophy at least antagonises it,
it's on the same playing field, both are in tune,
however well or however badly the strummed
guitar / ego - if i was going to sift through
another ******* of historical facts predating
antagonistic history like the events of
the Cold War or the horrendous disintegration
of Yugoslavia (Gorbachev was rightly
pompous to the end, the Soviets went their
separate ways peacefully, now Azerbaijan
sponsors the Euro football tournament) -
but if i were to shove all that **** into my head...
you know where Alzheimer's stems from?
i think i know - too much information,
too much information canvased against
easy, menial tasks... if they only taught us how
to not feel bored, instead of ******* us with
Pythagoras and calculus and whether it was
Newton or Leibniz who finished the finishing line
first... education in the West is a fool's game,
it's like that fable about giving an African
a fish or a fishing rod - they sell this **** in
Calcutta - me? i'm selling you a pirate copy,
don't bother - don't even go to university,
they'll turn you into a double-*** that you already
are, professional academics are not high school
teachers, they're the ones in line with ambitious
Higgs' boson, oh sure, Mr. Blair and that famous
'education, education, education,'
how about go **** yourself, go **** yourself,
go **** yourself?
the educated are in debt and the common
sense people,
well, they're also in debt - mortgages and what
not, but when i think about it...
i'd be earning super money to spend it... on what?
if  had children, fair enough,
the grand selfless act - maybe... erm...
never trust a female politician because she ends
up a tarantula, a black widow, caring for her own
rather than the ***** masturbated into a hanky?
listen, if you had a woman try to ****
you via your childhood friend... you wouldn't be
Kentucky frying chocolate bars to mush and
lovey hubby dub dub either.

i'll be as smart-drunk as i can be, you just find the "drunk" idiots; clue: they have a hard-on for being bilinguals, but they speak as much arabic as much as i speak turkish in a kebab takeaway.

it only hits be, dead-hard smack in the middle
of the chest, it almost feels like a cardiac arrest,
but is in fact that case of the famous turtle
travelling zeno's affair between
oliver reed & keith moon -
sorry ol' chaps: can't be much of a company,
i'm a lone-wolf drinker,
i hate talking and excesses of comic antics...
but it hits me:
william burroughs said that writing was
50 years behind painting,
painting became sloppy, too sloppy to object
to geometry,
      painting became a freak-show worthy
of a frankenstein monster than never appears...
point being: i hate being lied to,
i hate being faked for "companionship",
if you think that a drunk can't keep a secret
you think a drunk can't sniff out a rat?
and i thought i was being trusting...
   you know how many times i could have
punched out the guy who apparently
"enjoyed" drinking with me? every time
he brought his cyprus ***** of a
bro-bunny with him? he always had the argument:
you couldn't have had it worse than mine...
wanna bet?
      i just remember talking to this random guy
in a pub, when i came out of the toilet,
and he was looking at the guy, squeezing his
nose with his fingers, implying:
ready for that punch luv'ed up sam?!
    **** me, i was boxed with enough
knee jerks to let the case roll...
come on... if i punch someone i might as well
ask for a coffin...
                 and some jail time:
as my father always said: don't
touch ****, **** stinks.
            i should have merely said:
take it out on your old man,
and your ****** sister,
                punch him first, before i give
you a proper missing-tooth-grin...
       outer east-london,
last time i remember being in a fight
was in school...
punched that pikie in the knickers (kidneys)
so he'd sooner **** his pants,
or cry me a ******* timberlake sonata...
  thankfully the teacher liked my taking
the **** from the o'keef...
                 so i sometimes punch myself
in the face, betting with myself:
knock 'im out! knock 'im out!
i try, god i try...
      bit there's only so much you can punch
with emphatic passions for a night's worth...
i've had almost 32 hours under my belt
and i still don't feel sleepy...
   but then i make the right brown bear
canadian cocktail, and i do a mini-series
of hibernation, 10 hours...
been awake 32h+, what does that matter?
but this article wakes me up, once more,
she on her holiday, and she's keeping count
of her instagram likes, her bikinis, her *****,
her whatever it is that she does...
who the **** invited you?
seems akin: sisyphus and tunnel vision -
namely: you had no guardian: to make you
perform that infantile task of repeat,
you could have been akin to prometheus,
dragging the godly stone unto
the mortals... idiot! there was no cerberus
looking after you!
so you have your three brothers...
sisyphus who ought to have taken the
rock to man, and informed them:
romans! countrymen! lend me your ears!
i have just invented the "wheel"!
wheel?! the countrymen replied!
yes! a wheel! sisyphus could have replied.
then prometheus came before the altar
of eagle celebrating empires,
  liver eater by an eagle whether in rome,
or in **** germany, or in american balds...
but of course idiot polyphemus replied,
as he was always prone to reply:
the big stanley is iran,
  the little stan is idaho...
                       no one nowhere,
   nobody, nothing to do with the acronym brigade...
cyclop antics: tunnel visions,
better on horses with shutters...
        i say: sisyphus has rolled enough stones
toward a "futility" that actually meant something...
i'm sort, polyphemus was in a war,
the surgeons had to extricate one of his eyes
and make him into a helpless cannibalistic
half-***...
             one-eyed...
  but don't pity the ******, just mind the magician's
trick he always seems to compose under
his sleeve, with you being unaware...
                      sure, i might use "degrading"
terminology, but i know the magic of a ****** when
in see it, and it's so much more,
than certain people's attempts at clarifying gravity.
no one forced sisyphus into the menial task,
as no one believed that narcissus
looking upon his reflection in a lake,
would realise his mother to be medusa,
and be frozen into stone...
for narcissus was the son of zeus and of medusa...
christianity has already erased by slavic past,
it's only right that i reclaim a hellenic
dignity, away from this byzantine parade of farce!
there are more decried route unto death
than by crucifixion, most notably:
    a crucifixion in private, rather than upon
the public justification of a golgotha,
for at least, the public would plead the guilt
to a mercy and allow an end; but in public?
god knows, and thus god will never end,
knowing, our darkest plights,
which some of us, would rather decant into
a void, rather than the: un-circumscribed;
some of us prefer the minor injuries of
seeing urbane graffiti, tagging, as opposed to
these fetishes of abhorring words,
adding to the fetish of the less abhorred
meat cleaving;
     i'll die choking that these fetishistist desires are
a standardised explorations leading toward
the foundations of power...
  "power"...
           they sure are a fetishism,
and they are sure desire,
           but are the standardised "explorations"?
and do they lead unto power?
      as ever: ad infinitum nuance in quaestio:
id est: qua est vis? (what is power?)...
               ergo est vis *** non vis...
         i like my latin, even if it's piglet,
for some reason, it allows me to handle an enlarged
bladder, once it's been taken off the streets
and put to good, however *lingua mort
it seems to "appear".

If neoliberalism has taught me anything
It’s that Love is a close, slow, and cold war
Of poisoned wells, proxy wars, and intel—
Know thy enemy, keep them closer than allies.
So close this necessary rivalry
That no olive branch can pass between
That, even in times of peace,
The light-bearing serpents
Post guard near the vaults of one’s purity
Unsure whether grain or gold
Actually lines the walls of ones coffers,
And the thousand envious myrmidons
Kept along the edges of their body’s territory
And skirt the embassy within.
Is there room in the hearth
For pacifists like me?
Or are all the rooms quartered by troops?
It’s sad to say, only the words of the cynic
Could truck and barter
Their way through the bronze gates,
What small inlets there may be,
As master seeking the slave
And slave, the master’s whips
Is a true sign of loyalty to Monogamy’s crown.
What Love couldn’t be said to be
The sadomasochism of
The corporate merger,
Or annexation
Or competitive market of ideas?
***, in the time of Smith or Hobbes,
Is exactly what we need—
Egoism allwheres,
Like so much embroidery
The love of ones life
Veils *******, a swallowing, a utility
And undoes the altruism,
Anything but all-true-ism,
In favor of the fetishism of control,
Flashed like semaphores in storm-beaten nights
To any ship passing
Seeking port and safe passage,
Exchange fire, those shapes and pleas,
Turned warnings to threats,
Sinking, sinking deeper
Into each other’s arms.
In all their plotting, do they hear
Andres-Salome, Ree, and Nietzsche
Laughing about in unburdened skin
Laughing to let the summer in,
On cart-drawn pleasures
And rustic, old-world habits
That rub dirt in the wound
Of the flesh’s censures
By the cruel absence of the lash
And the ostracon.

Young Sade

I am:
Combustible
Volcanic
Excitable
Fractious
Perverse
Hotheaded
I­mpatient
Convulsive
Agitated
Passionate
Alonebutnotlonely
Animate­d
Secretive
Tempestuous
Imprudent
Enamoured by the opposite extreme of everything,
Easily exhilarated
And when despondent, profoundly so
A minimalist who wastes words on purpose
And harbours private contempt

BUT I AM NOT MURDEROUS
Nor of savage intelligence
Though I am of disorderly emotions

I am a libertine
I am a socialist
I dine with Marie Antoinette and execute her also

I am in love with my own contradictions, and have no shame.
I do not fear failure, because when I am beaten I will become
Brecht’s Hero
I am wise enough to value ignorance
Even as I spit at it when I find it in myself
I love the divine in the mundane
I am a pitcher, and a catcher
I am innocent and evil
An immortal child

I love cats and blasphemy and 1000 and one nights of debauchery
I believe that nothing is forbidden by nature.

I am a mellow atheist, shrugging my shoulders at spiritual enlightenment
A PERSON WHO THUS FAR HAS NOT BEEN REDUCED TO GROVELING LIKE AN ANIMAL BEFORE THE ALTER OF COMMODITY FETISHISM AND PROFIT-
And I do not intend to.

I could eat the world
Hold it all in a deathly grip
Whatever paint with which my heart is brushed
I become a superman and prince
And raise the bar of feeling great
And I admit my mistakes
If only to the dark-
But I bear my teeth
And smile like I’m crazy
Posing for the portrait that they’ll carry past my grave.

der völkisch rückkehr: and legal terms, in england it's illegal to run a brothel, but it is not illegal to be a *******; i honestly didn't mind that one of them stole my debit card once, or my saracens beanie i "bought" off a pair of drunk essex hunks at a liverpool st. pub for 2 pints of beer; when i went back to the house of cream pies and bourbon and dimmed lights asking for both, i did manage to persuade the **** to show me a stack of stolen debit cards, probably 6 inches thick; hey, you mingle with the underworld of crime, you have to mind your manners even more... which is why internet trolling is such an adrenaline thrill of unsuspecting idiots about to get a fair game.

i have a tier cake of options,
and yes, the first is a custard base of heidegger,
the folkish return -
and return to the country, away from
globalical-centric "comrades" of
classical music,
  much that can be said, must be unsaid,
in that folkish music desires an anti-pop
fervour...
i simply adore the germanic folk music,
i have enough fetishism in me to
revive the genre from the stampede of
beethoven or brahms from an elvis...
but that's just music, i haven't started...

do i feel pittance, do i feel a mea culpa
twice the crap, thrice the *******?
oh, right, it's called a pittance with a woman
who earns more ******* coins
in an hour than the supposedly "honesty"
worker on 0-hour contracts in supermarkets
these days?
is that modern day caliphate or modern
day slavery?
   *** slaves what?!
          you have a prosthetic leg for a *******
violoncello, hop to fiddler on the roof are
you?
                 i'm not a β-mensch,
               as i am not even a quarter of an
α-mensch...
     i am not either **** beta, nor a **** alpha...
       i'm an ω-mensch, an omega-male...
i don't know or will never know how to
compete...
    either i don't have the adrenaline streak
at competing, or i find that being β (2nd),
in that psychological alphabet st. is worse
than being being ω (nth) - last choice of man...
psychology was to rigid for me anyway,
β-males vs. α-males,
         no one managed to conjure up the un-
competing ω-males...
the monks, the philosopher types...
        it just became too much after a while,
esp. with articles such as

i slept with a *** worker 18 years ago and
the same of it still haunts me,
verbatim (from dave):
more than 18 years ago i did something
that remains one the biggest regrets
of my life. consequently, i am still struggling
to come to terms with the events that
unfolded one night in a city in the netherlands,
which i consider to be appalling, irresponsible
and immoral.
i was 21, single, exhausted and under the influence
of alcohol. at the suggestion of my "friends"
we ventured into a city centre red-light
district. a combination of my lack of will power
and peer pressure meant that i was
persuaded to tag along, i'm sure you can
imagine what happened next, and while i used
protection, it still seems stupidly reckless...
    the toxic shame and humiliation
are proving impossible to erase, particularly
since it is common knowledge among my peers...
    i feel isolated, lonely,
   scared of people's perception of me,
jealous of their happy family lives with children;
deep down i believe i'm not a bad person
and what happened does not reflect my
view of women...
                         *dave: dave dave oh dave,
you wouldn't be such a poncey wuss with
a prosthetic leg...

a. you know she's the one that bring all
the condoms,
b. you know she always has the tenacity
to tell you she has regular *** checks?
c. ever seen the uniform of prostitutes
in a brothel? the bulgarians prefer stewardess
greys:

prostitutes > psychiatrists > priests.

after i lost my virginity to a french psychology
exchange student 3 years older than me,
university *** life was like an
elephants' graveyard,
   i probably experience oral *** once,
between the years 18 through to 20,
before losing my "virginity" a second time
to a ukranian ******* with a golden tooth...
you can't imagine how intimidating that
row of naked legs were in the dimmed lighting,
we drank *****, ******, i never forced her
into oral ***, she ****** me off,
and then we just lay there, and she
uttered the words: you're a good man.

then there was the puerto rican chubby
in amsterdam who laughed when i wondered if
oral *** was o.k. with her,
refusing she asked me:
    is it o.k. if i **** into this bowl in front of you?
no problem.

then the bulgarian girls in goodmayes,
the ones i used to oral kiss,
and then break the greatest taboo of kissing
them on the lips,
the one with an ****** saying it's only
the 2nd time it ever happened,
the one i ****** then jumped into a shower
and trickled cold water all over myself
to cool off while she masturbated in bed,
then the one i kissed and she giggled like
a schoolgirl being kissed for the first time,
then the veteran that has a pair of lips
that could have just as well been used
to circumcise a lot of boys;

and then this strange incident at a party,
a girl sat at the base of my feet,
and forced me to stroke her head like
petting a cat,
   until hours later, alone,
   she encouraged, but at the same time
lay stiff like i was to turn into
a necrophiliac, to which i replied:
   my hand went far down south already,
if you don't respond, i'm not doing anything
more.

then this other one,
  the gem...
   she only started perfecting giving perfect
head, at the same time we broke up.

i do remember my first kiss, aged 5 / 6 / 7,
her surname was kot, and she had two
younger twin sisters,
her father worked as a trucker,
   and i thought i we could settle for an anchor
rather than a pair of golden rings.

so i double up...
you know that the founder of the nation of islam
was a concubine of abraham?
      men didn't invent the niqab et al. etc.,
that attire for women was invented by keturah -
or hagar - i don't remember which
ran between two mountain tops looking for
water... until satan came around and said:
*****! stop running!
   the islamic matriarchy is founded upon
a concubine, the mother of islam is a *******!
so why do you think all this
talk of "modesty"?

and who is among you with a clean slate?
  i ask, one more time -
           who feels morally superior to *******
than seeking the health benefits from
a *******?
   what has talk actually ever solved, in totality?
i am neither the erstemensch (α)
             nor the zweitemensch (β),
but esp. not the übermensch...
   i am the letztemensch (ω);
and thus saying: remember a man has two points
of entry, a woman has three,
you really think it doesn't take a man
to live with the conundrum of 72 prostitutes
rather than virgins,
while a woman's heaven suffices with
3 men?

    i find no desire to ******* the alphabetical
psychologism of the darwinistic plateau
in a "competition" staged between the alpha / beta...
i'm happy being the omega,
  as the absolute antithesis of the alpha male,
since the beta male is not an antithesis of the alpha
male: the only antithesis of the alpha male thesis
is the omega male...
  so far removed from the **** & adrenaline
& ******, as to call himself, something
akin to newton, or leibniz;

and as all omega men: there's the inclination
to either homosexuality, or prostitution,
that myth of chasing women is about as **** and
thrilling, as a benny hill sketch,
byproduct of α / β antagonism without
recognising the **** omega?
     paedophilia or lecherous perversity...
how can you call it a perversity,
breaking a *******'s sacred command of
never kissing a client on the mouth
but subsequently breaking it,
       and giggling like a timid schoolgirl?

You have to let the thinkers think
The dreamers dream
The speakers speak
The schemers scheme
The wolves among us feast on sheep
The shepherds teach them how to reap
The harvest of community
The plenty space for unity
If being free is what we want
Equality must be the need
Prioritized beyond our profit
Mass-producing greed machine
Still colonizing everything
Then selling you the diamond ring
The social contract theory bomb
The buffer states that look like Guam
And from the satellites they beam
That perfect family fifties feeling
Reaching for your credit card
With isolation’s *** appealing
Movie star aestheticism
Gaping black hole fetishism
Whispering it’s holiest
Pale ghosts of fascist soviets
Still letting all the thinkers think
The dreamers dream
The speakers speak
The schemers scheme

As money sorts the in-between

your citizens don't get to school me... as neither your government to demand a democracy export, esp. if your citizens start behaving in a dictatorial manner! no wonder other nations tell you to *******... start schooling me? huh?! want a punch or a puncture? what's with this post-colonial fetishism of branding other europeans lesser, than their supposedly "integrated" pakistani friends? oh well done; clap clap clap, clap... clap

you don't get to export democracy to other countries,
and then allow your citizens to be dictatorial
in schooling others that come to these lands
and allow these lands to prosper...
  who the **** are these brats? they're not brits...
they're *brats!
             just because of this, that and the other,
implies that you have, power over me?
          you feel like you're in charge?
                          well.. **** me... have the recent
events lullaby you to "sleep"...
                                  i'm isolating a part of europe,
the new alliance, not poles with lithuanians,
but with the hungarians,
if i hear of an attack on these new bound lands...
tomorrow i'll hear, skulls being crushed
by a bite of populist solidarity...
                      and that's... what you... only dream of!
and only have the *****, to speak of such dreams...
in h'america; seriously, take your *****,
and start flushing them into a mincer;
perhaps by then, your tongue might be edible enough,
for the ears to listen to; right now i seem to see
western intellectuals, having a **** for a tongue,
just like in the 1960s france, with the deconstructionists;
**** me, if i want a nail bomb's worth of
language shrapnel... i'll just blah blah, sheepishly b'aah
(there seriously needs to be a diacritical mark,
prescribed in such instances, to enforce the capacity to
  stutter).

there are all these street references in modern
American poetics as if
anyone would or should give a ****
where Coventry Road, Ilford
or Beehive Lane, Gants Hill
   or Havering Road, Romford ought to or not
ought to be...

mind you: if there's anything i'm in awe of
i'm in awe of modern... post(?)modern
American poetics...
since no other people cry out: democracy!
and then shelter into under a poem
to salvage some realism of:
outside of the ballot box: the truest frenzy
of expressing freedom and individuation
and... what else?

ah yes, capitalised on discovering how
atoms can't be manipulated otherwise
to be used for boo 'n' 'mb...
so no great philosophers' stone unearthed
when the boo 'n' 'mb touched ground
on the keel of Hi'row'sha'mah shamanism
for clouds get "*****" with plum hues
when gathering water losing salt
when it is about to become a draped drenching
like a wrath of god and genghis khan
making coded eye-twitch-signals
because that pile of chalk is bone
and heaped as it was in Baghdad it wasn't
exactly: Pisa leaning...

    stacking bone-heads (bein-köpfe)
is stacking bricks, somewhat not but if pyramids
are concerned:
    Christian "mongols" did the same
to the library of Alexandria:
books were burned and later gold was revalued
at double its worth... since knowledge:
or simply knowing how to hack a faulty plumbing
device was passed down for two generations
sober until a drunk fetish for revelry...

the Baltic sea stinks of herrings...
hear-says i say i hear: sometimes it's not worth
hearing anything but a lover's snoring
with dictation of: i don't mind...

i won't be writing an equivalent of
"for my people" in the vein of Margaret Walker...
to me English is a language of commerce
and some off-shoot locals
like Cockneys befriending Essex groundwork...

i can't dispense my intellect to do
neo-colonial or post-colonial politico lingo jar
jar jargon...
i can actually excuse myself and it seems i must:
i must excuse myself from the concerns of
the English and what the hell they have done
with their "heritage"...
it's all very reminiscent of the 3 partitions of
Poland... one of the few instances
where at least 3 languages congregated
in a communion of a state...
at least ****** Litha and Ukra...

   not that i'm hot on my heels to return to the land
of hobbits and orcs in the middle of
the funnel continent that's Europe...
but if the common Englishman was
"robbed" of his laziness then
his laziness is a robbery in and of itself...
sure: to make life so expensive that it does
require the import of foreign labour for menial
tasks...

ask Leibniz: the librarian...
i'm a security guard at large events
and it's almost a simile in terms of how deviant
ambition can be(come)...
the concerns of the English are no concern for me...
notably?
  ah... this lovely chestnut...
why is Whitechapel spelled in Bengali
on the station entrance?

       হোয়াইটচ্যাপেল

palagi wordsmith... that's samoan for:
people from heaven donning cloth sheets to capture
the winds...
my concerns are not the concerns of the English...
i think "my" people have kept intact
European concerns...
Russia is sort of off limits as is Romania
Poland Lithuania, Bulgaria,
well: beyond touristy English no one is going
to live out a lingocide...

veit-shapel?!

            but i feel not allegiance to the "threats"
of what the natives speak of...
given the natives are still most intact
as the Welsh and the Gaels and the Scots
even though: beside the notable Welsh linguistic presence
the Scots reduced themselves to
scribbling phonetically
rather than linguistically...
so the theory off of Darwinism emerged just
as much with the advent of:
crazy idea European stranglehold
on the universality of the use of fork and hammer
and toilet... beside the brickwall of chopsticks
stone head and ******* and ******* into
the sea...

        lingo vs. phono

                 splits two brains into one and revels
in two tongues blinding one eye
with one ear honing to the sound of the migration
of bees...

i remember my origins in this land
and i am clearly peeved that what CONSERVATIVE
once meant... also meant:
deportation... also meant my father and mother
being handcuffed while i punched the wall...
so banana boat ahoy
so banana boats ahoy...
i'm still a furious pro-recyclist
in that i like to keep this island clean...
but i defer when there's a complaint:
oh illegal this one, not illegal that, one...
comes with orientating oneself
when there's clearly an ethnic nepotism...

how else was mass illegal immigration
into England made feasible if not by ethnic nepotism?
those already here
ensured they could prosper even more
by importing cheaper labour and pay them
droplets and breadcrumbs
while stashing their legal papers while
abodes of the Sheiks' were erected...
seems that smart people are a bad judge of liars...
because liars get freebies of innocent tickles...

i reimagine myself starting again
on the islands of Hawaii
concerning myself with: i'm not American...
and you ******* came all the way from: Taiwan!
sure... no horses like the Mongols
to transverse the plains of Siberia...
row row, row your boat...
   admirable... truly...
England is saturated so that i can't make excuses
for it making excuses being strapped
to either a straitjacket...
or rather... who invented the first straitjacket
if not Odysseus when encountering
the mermaids' song?

i can't be moved since i too am an arrival...
when applying for a job at Fulham's Craven Cottage:
being all hard-on for diversity and inclusivity
i put down my ethnicity as:
ANGLO-SLAVIC...
well in school i was taught about the Anglo-Saxons...
that's Anglo: Welsh, Irish, Scots... and the Saxons...
anything wrong with my assumption?
out of all the football clubs they pay the best...
am i not an Anglo-Slav?
well... i wouldn't put it down as a British-Blackpolack
because it just doesn't sound right...

all together... since the referendum
a marked disinterest from "my" people to settle or live
among: the Romanians fit just ever so slightly
better with the Asian demographic,
almost indistinguishable...
so after the referendum eastern europeans ******
off back home and
now we have confused locals siding with
political marches pro-Philistines
like it really matters, not...

                            shock-troops of the right
are still only yobs and psychiatric clues to the wonk
of anything worth being debated...

but as i dropped my mother off at Stratford
and was coming home...
well... so much for loving this piece of land...
and the language...
i can't get all fired up about heritage...

bo i tak mogę pisać po Polsku...
bo i tak: mogę myśleć po Polsku...
oddly enough, not really...
i don't need to be involved in an "culture war"...
which is? less a war and more:
a cultural exhaustion...
       an exhaustion of and a lack of expression of:
since everything has become a microcosm
of politics... a shifting zeitgeist rots
like a Lovecraftian anti-deity...
even the summations of borrowing Darwinism
for simpler explanations of:
not everyone is getting laid blah blah...
the war bride answer to why oh why...
blah blah...

            i can actually step back and refrain
from any panic... mingling with the Muslims
and the Hindus like this island was for partitioning:
clearly it's not...
but i'm just somewhat suspicious...
the whole world is here...
with the odd two dialects missing...
and? nothing spectacular is happening:
there's no Beatlemania...
there's no Britpop reinvention revolution...
it almost seems that someone has taken
the reins and said: whoa whoa whoa...
shh... slow down... let's find gravity again...

that's the plus side of being an immigrant among
immigrants and faking it being English...
only yesterday i had a revelation of:
but... i was faking being English, all along?
i couldn't learn the Essex accent...
so the London cosmopolitan educated type had to do...
but still...
mind you: before the current wave of immigration
there was that one little pocket
of resistance: no. 302 and no. 303 Polish fighter
divisions in the RAF...
less spectacular when the plumbers came:
i gather...

            but if i had to bend over backwards
and walk like a cryptic anti-toddler
in a circus' act of gymnastics: or some freak accident
in a horror movie... just to be supposedly
"anti-racist"...
  make more fetishes and unrealities of
individuation and self-sovereignty:

up to a point... until i'm a passenger in a bus
and i require a bus driver...
or a baker... or a shoesmith...
for ****'s sake... nice theory:
put into practice: leeches of the monetary dynamic
akin to usury and then thrown back
into the reality of 7 billion people and
we have tasks... individuated tasks:
specific tasks... yet such frank opent bluntness of
these people and their money...
yet somehow lacking the skills to perform
open heart surgery on themselves! hmm!
odd... why not?! divinity atom-ego?!
you get whiffs of their lack of schematic of politeness
on the basis that money touches anything
and ergo it transforms is done
by the magic of materialism of:
but money per se is not materialism per se...

money is like water, it is transactional...
it is not a stone...
         enough accumulation of it is a bit like...
a limp ****... it's the ******'s fetishism...
of ghost *****...
    ******'s 1% club... or rather...
the impotence of riches...
                 a strange kind of hunger is born thus...

******* ******* no.79 bus rush hour crush 28.07.18

not any criticism
here is no tyrant
absolutely adore your fetishism
hidden is behaviour that's sexually variant.
don't worry about strange
i like to curb crawl
not interested in lips or if you have mange
my feet are going to make you drawl.
our love will be official
and another thing will be grateful
to prove this is not artificial
this morning i dumped my vagankle.
photographing is dedication
your hunger needs no clues
promise to god no more *******
waiting here naked only on are shoes.
don't want to scare
smouldering girl you sound tranquil
getting on no.79 alperton to edgeware
just got to find a woollen grazer for my ankle.

hardly a critique of a beer,
or as they might tell the next young
girl about a shoe fetishism
stemming from Cindarella's glass slipper,
shoes shoes, and more shoes,
          thankfully some practices are
still legal, because what would
the feminists have them do?
cashiers at a supermarket,
dinner ladies in a primary school,
cleaning ladies of office blocks?
      how nature abhors a vacuum,
        because oh a year in this concrete
desert is nothing when it comes
to a concentrated hour in that
bourbon brothel perfumery,
           he'll,  she'll even slop on some
cream to allow herself the comfort,
which is reciprocal, considering
i remember this instance, a date,
with a boarding school teacher,
      who... ahem... aged 20 something
seemed to have hit dry-**** menopause...
which should make **** a deterrent,
somehow not ever phallus becomes
a strict standing corporal ready to march...
more like a madonna-cindarella-jezabel
complex... while all i have to worry
about is fucling my mother
and plucking my eyes out... no biggie...
but **** me, what a bagpipe,
    came the mad Scot with Odysseys
and when the sirens sang their drowning
song... came the mad Scot with the baggie...
if sirens had ovulas made of porcelain
to hell with them, shattered...
               to begin drinking and to rather
be, in good humour...
    na zdrowie! sláinte mhaith...
  me lord me health... to hell with health...
watch the spiral and the dervish Dante
in it...           na humor!
     to humour!
     came the Ukrainian train of legs first,
face hidden in musk...
    ever see a really really pretty girl
walk down these western streets?
    res extensa, after all the niqab can
extend far beyond the freedom claustrophobia
attire... an apartment, a chauffer,
    yoga class... you name it...
       a ******* tiara and a beauty pageant,
not to mention the television screen cage...
at least a *******'s beauty is her mandible
body, unlike those Japanese prim(s),
       those porcelain beauties,
               tiresome of those virgins lying
stiff imitating acting out in reverse
  a necrophilia...
             with a ******* it's a bit like
Roding with a piece of clay...
          mandible... he'll,  teeth missing,
in her late 40s, chubby, whatever...
              *** in good humour,
perhaps sloppy, obviously not tantric,
but then I'm not blue skinned let alone
blue blooded to mind what needs to be filled
in an hour, which makes waiting for
a bus the best VR set of glasses... well,
I'm rich in having invested in memories...
ah, right, the odd beer:
here we have a replacement
    of the famous Belgian pale "ale",
    hoegaarten...
        pszeniczniak
   is it really a cas of too many consonants
    if i told you what a little sparrow told me?
pshe'(k)nee'chñıak.... a canvas of corn
titillated by subtle hints of bananas and cloves...
**** me, what a stunner...
    time for a different beer.

better than doing the ultimate dumb thing
imaginable as arguing with someone
about how you didn't don't will not ever
exist, that you have, will, or never had...
     well... don quixote to you too...
               clingy *******,  and if
not clingy ******* with a megalomania
that topples statues of kings with weak
intellectual origami...
        well hell! why not bring out
the guns of navarone! sly *******
start shuffling in queue for the Hindu lobotomy
of the concept of reincarnation!
    wouldn't that actually imply
an original number of selves?
      what the **** am I supposed to do
with all these schizophrenics?
    ah, I see... ******* in ethopia are going
to built a monopoly on the flow of the Nike...
a trafficjam of reincarnation...
             too many "original" selves were
rejected from such ******* serf body and mind...
some grand maharaja didn't like the prospect
of coming back as both a maharaja and a cab driver...
people! people! god I abhor the European
fetishism with oriental nihilism
     of all material concepts and materialisation
is bugging me, itchy really,
            how can Achilles ever be reincarnated
if people still retain the memory
  of the one and only Achilles that lived
so long ago that it's become a mythology
rather than history? well, with modern
    journalistic squabbles and roulette viewing
gambling and the rain man...
    the **** is history if not comparable
to myth? variant of modern journalism
  as anti-history and the exodus by poets
into a mythological digestion of time:
blitzkrieg... blitzbkohren...
           thanks journalism,
                        probably the only
insomniac outlet and what an electric drain...
history isn't dead to me akin
to western liberal democracy...
         unless journalism per se is just that...
me? apparently sir spam-a-lot with each
new "spam" being a unique observation
on a drunkard's whim...
      for any unique user.
       nonetheless
       cage the elephant's - it's jus forever...
the idea of reicarnation
     is just a nice way of saying:
   Hindu gonna give a ****- a lobotomy.

I did conspire to love you.

2. The moon was happy with us.

3. Baudrillard’s concept of “Object Fetishism” is more relevant than Marx’s.

4. Thank you.

5. Trees are closer to heaven than the angels. (I know, you already know that, but I like the line).

6. You have the most beautiful sorrowful eyes.

7. The future enters into us, in order to transform itself in us, long before it happens. (RILKE 1912)

8. Locomotives fall in love going in opposite directions.

9. Certain earthquakes do not like themselves.

10. The more one contemplates the less one lives; the more one accepts recognizing himself in the dominant images of need, the less one understands ones’ own existence and ones’ own desires. (Debord 1967)

11. I did plot to love you.

12. The black crow on the wire is not me.

13. Umbrellas can be opened inside. (Only black; counter intuitive, I know).

14. Your touch; my body remembers softly.

15. I did love you.

16. Clocks sometimes stop for no reason.

17. Even the most unexpected dream is a rebus that contains a desire or its reverse, a fear…Everything conceals something else.
(CALVINO 1972)

18 Sometimes letters sent, never arrive.

19. Only you ever made me blush.

20. In the end, everything is just a dream.

21. This poem will maximize your interval times.

22. Love is ambiguous, at best a “Contamination”, from the Latin *** tangere. “leaving a tactile print.”

23. I will let you go.

24. I will publish this poem

25. I will always love you.


Sincerely Mr. Leibow

it was never about hurting someone's
emotions, it never was and never will be,
i eat an omelette made from three
abortions in the morning
knowing exactly why the fulmar
egg harvest on the faroe island of
skúvoy happens within a 6 day window,
handel's messiah before breakfast,
and God went to the cinema on
the 7th day, or rather: **** never
gets tired on the 7th day,
      for 6, 6, for six days the dormant
spermatoid in the yoke
like a tapeworm egg inside the flesh
of animals or fish...
                 anything good on a Friday
becomes black bile tipping
      charcoal and tar onto hushed
sleepy azure, just after the rain...
   and if i didn't have my daily feast
of abortions, and as the doctors prescribe
so too the ****** ate her placenta
once she gave birth to her litter of puppies...
so even day that a man should not
be at the time of birth,
     said those, behind the midwife curtain...
and in more ancient times,
the people would sacrifice their born
who would hinder into the *****
and bowels of Moloch...
          a Catholic school will teach
and meddle with the yet to mature minds
of teenagers with these matters,
       mind you, Seven Kings, Ilford,
England, used to be a primarily Irish
neighbourhood,
                  expecting teenage pregnancies?
apparently no latex fetishism for men,
a woman will find discomfort even
there, and may her jaw droop and break
when she decides to chew another piece
of menthol chap chap chap...
in the 9 tiers there can only be blurred lines,
in exhausted poetics of genesis,
      the shameless woman and the man
lesirued by one less possession,
    one less obligation,
         the poverty of the English language
attempting continental existentialism,
patron saint of bachelors,
          who we know by the name Emmanuel,
and in defence,
    a life sentence a woman looking into
the firey eyes of Moloch,
   perhaps even a man, yet so stands
    the argument: for those without responsibility
but the cult tongue,
         and so the cheetah and the herd
without being picky about being peckish!
could the predator be cowardly
for not attacking the bull of the herd?
   the incompatible heart of a Christian
and the relentless eyes without eyelids
of the serpent of Darwin...
      but even with the settled ethics under
Caduceus... ah...
    but of course: the "immaculate" conception
is the captain steering this sinking ship...
6 days dormant the spermatoid
in the yoke... 3 abortions for breakfast...
i have no problem... truly immaculate
to call it man who could breath in liquid
for 9 months... bathing and breathing via
the placenta?
       i guess that's how factions form,
               glory to the egg, the yoke and
       the frozen spermatoid within it...
         and if i wrote on paper and felt some
immediate dissatisfaction,
              the paper would be crunched up
   into a scrappy multi edged ball,
         and thrown into the bin,
    to allow a new breath, a new re-reading
of the topic...

Phenomenal.
Not spiritual. The birth of a new god.
But fetishism starts.

Do not meet me behind
the moon. Look somebody follows me in
dark.The baby screams.

Where the truth has
gone? Words would not tell. The barren
mind wants to know, why to bleed?